Memories of things...present

There have not been many poets outside of those who wrote epic poetry (I'm thinking of Boiardo, Ariosto, Sturluson, et al.), that I've actually been able to enjoy and return to over the years. However, exceptions to that "rule" are those who have been called by some the "metaphysical poets" (and a couple of other odd ones here and there). Of the metaphysical poets, John Donne is best known, but he is not my favorite; that would be George Herbert. But of all of these wordsmiths, the one that is responsible for this meandering post is none other than Henry Vaughan, and in particular his poem, "The World" is the one that has come to me out of past memories, and demanded a place in my present consciousness until it has seeped into every corpuscle of my person. No bigs.